


Whatever We Deny or Embrace

by satin_doll



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Feels, In Between and Behind the Scenes, Loving Molly, Pining Sherlock, Sad, Secret Relationship, Sherlolly - Freeform, Strong Molly, Tags May Change, Wistful, mollock, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-10-05
Packaged: 2018-07-11 03:04:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7024921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satin_doll/pseuds/satin_doll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The night of John's Wedding, Sherlock leaves early. What's in his head?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'ed, mistakes are mine alone. I own nothing, claim nothing, all characters belong to their respective creators. I have no excuses for this, it just popped out while I was doing something else. Reviews are welcome, as are any and all comments anyone cares to make about anything in the universe. I'm open to everything. Let me know what you think. :)

He’d always been on the outside. Not in the sense of a little boy with his nose pressed against a window, wanting to be inside, to be a part of things. But in the sense of being the observer, the one who watched because he found it all so curious and strange; in the sense that if he watched from outside long enough, he might get a little understanding of why they thought their nonsensical rules were such a good idea. He had no thought of ever belonging. He would never be a part of their “polite society” and that suited him just fine. 

So he watched a bit more tonight, after all the excitement over the incident was done. He did his part, such as it was, completed the chores with which John had tasked him. He did what he did best - catch the murderer - and played along with the rest of the game as best he could. His portion of the program was done. There was nothing left for him to do, except....well, there was work he could be doing, but…

He didn’t want to watch it anymore. It made his gut twitch, made his hands clench, made him want to howl with anger and frustration. Every smile, every look, every pose - it was all too much now. He’d tried looking away. He’d tried ignoring it. He’d even tried giving in to it, tagging along behind, pretending he was doing something else. That had made him feel small and childish. 

Leaving was the best option. 

_Come with me. I know you see me. Leave him and come be with me. There’s so much to tell you! We did it, we caught him, it was splendid! You’re the only one...you’re the only...one…_

He knew, of course, that the chances were next to nothing. She knew how to play by the rules, how to go along with the madness. He’d intended to ask how she did it and still maintained her inner distance, far enough from them that she could still _see_ him the way she did. Somehow he’d never managed to ask her, but he had managed to push her away far enough that she’d stopped looking. 

Now it was too late.

The night air was brisk as he shouldered his way through the door. He strode down the pavement, his coat wrapped tightly around him, phoned for a taxi when he neared the street. While he waited he looked up at the stars, letting the cool air blow away all the detritus of the evening inside him while he gazed at the tiny lights. 

_I would take you stargazing. We’d lie on a blanket under the vault and name our own constellations. And I would see their light in your eyes and find my heaven…_

The taxi arrived and he stepped in, with one last glance back at the noisy chaos everyone else enjoyed so much. He thought he saw a familiar figure standing at a window watching him and he paused a second. He blinked and the figure was gone. He gave the driver his address and they pulled away.

_It took her a bit longer than she thought it would to grab her coat and get to the door. As it opened she saw the taxi drive off, stared after it. Inside her chest something cracked, broke, fell away in tiny pieces that in their turn crumbled to dust. She had seen him leaving, had seen the look on his face - and had hesitated a moment too long before she made her excuse and went to the window. When she’d looked out the taxi was already nearly there. She thought she might have time...She stood in the cold, watched the tail lights disappear; finally she turned and went back inside, back to the music and dancing and...Tom. The decision was made now. There was something that needed doing; a mistake needed correcting._

_And with that, she also made her first and last vow._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll have to let me know if you want this to continue.

Conceited. Narcissistic. Egomaniac. Psychopath. Freak. _Machine_. She knew all the things they called him. She knew how infuriating he could be. She’d experienced it all for herself. But it was too easy to simply write him off with a label; too easy to hate him for what he was, to look down on him for not being like they were - too easy to hurt him. 

And they did hurt him. He never showed it, at least not where anyone else could see it. He was very good at seeming like he was made of stone, impervious to whatever barb they chose to throw at him. She knew better. 

She watched the landscape roll by, peering out the window of the taxi. She’d hated lying to Tom, telling him she felt sick. _But_ _haven’t_ _you_ _been_ _lying_ _to_ _him_ _all_ _along_ _anyway_? He’d be angry for a while when she left him for good, but she didn’t think he’d be as upset as he should have been.

_We all laughed about his best man speech, about how awful it would be. The real part of it, before all the madness had happened, was beautiful. Despite what he does, what we know he is capable of, we have so little faith in him._

She sighed, looked down at her awful yellow dress, pulled the big floppy bow out of her hair. Her mother’s idea of how a proper young woman should look at the wedding of friends. She’d given in to her mother just to avoid another big blow up and six months of the silent treatment. 

_I wish I had his courage, his ability to stand up against criticism, his strength to resist pressure from everyone around me. I always give in. He never does._

_And it costs him. It costs him so much, and nobody knows. Who would care even if they did know?_

Watching him leave the wedding hurt her. It was as if all his aloneness, _his_ _loneliness,_ had suddenly coalesced into a ball of light that had zipped across the room and exploded in her. Her heart ached. She’d reached her limit in one giant flash, and decided she had to stop this crazy pretense. She’d looked at Tom and seen him for what he was: A stranger who bore a very slight resemblance to what she’d really wanted. A poor substitute. Lying was never easy for her; leaving him there was.

At Baker Street, the light was on, as she knew it would be. He’d probably already found something to work on, an experiment, some research. Possibly an exploration of his mind palace. She smiled, paid and thanked the cabbie. As she stood gazing up at the window, he appeared, stared down at her. She pointed to the door and he nodded. 

She didn’t know what she would say to him. It didn’t really matter. She just wanted to be there for him, to find a way to let him know that she always would be, even if he never felt anything for her at all. 

She had made her vow also, and she would use him as an example: his strength and courage. His love for his friends. 

_His love. I’ll never have it, not the way I want. But that’s okay. It’s enough that he’s there, that he’s real, and I can love him. Because he needs it so badly. Somebody has to love him and show it._

She waited for the door to open, feeling lighter and freer than she’d felt since she left home for the first time to go to uni. She smiled, and then laughed as she remembered she’d left the hideous yellow bow in the taxi.

_He’d heard the taxi stop in front of the building. When he looked out the window, saw Molly standing there in that terrible travesty of a dress, a tiny fist of tension deep in his gut relaxed. She wanted in - and he was glad. Inexplicably, being glad to see her had been happening more and more lately. He trotted down the stairs, pulled the door open for her, let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding._

“Molly.”

“Sherlock.”

He stepped aside and let her in - _really_ _let_ _her_ _in_ , _for_ _the_ _first_ _time_ \- and followed her up the stairs.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These chapters will be very short, but they should come quickly. As always, let me know what you think; it helps to give me direction. :)

The puzzle wasn’t who she was, or why he was drawn to her. The puzzle was why _she_ was drawn to _him_. He’d had this idea that what she wanted was a quiet, normal life - kids, dog, hubby home at night, little house with picket fence, Saturday nights at the pub type normal. Family type normal. It’s what she came from after all, it would be familiar, and most people wanted the familiar, wanted it to be repeated over and over and over...It was the kind of life that would kill him. When he saw her ring, he thought she’d found that life with her new boyfriend (God he hated that word!) and he found himself, strangely, wanting her to be happy. He’d really _wanted_ that for her. He’d also wanted to take the copycat outside and wring his ugly neck. 

He was drawn to her intelligence, to her innate strength - evidenced by what she did on a daily basis. She was brilliant, quick, intuitive - in her own way she could focus much like he did, maybe not quite so intensely, but still. It was rare and he saw it in her quite clearly. He knew she was trustworthy and her loyalty to him bordered on the ridiculous. He had doubts as to whether she was aware of any of these qualities in herself. 

_If you could only step outside your body and see yourself, watch your small, quick hands in action, see the way your eyes shine when you catch a pattern or make that grand leap...you are so much more than you think...so much more than anyone thinks._

He knew Meat Dagger didn’t see any of this in her. Meat Dagger wasn’t capable of observing the real Molly Hooper. He wasn’t capable of observing _anything_ , the twat! 

Underneath that wonderful brain and brave heart, did she really want normal? That was the way it seemed. He had to make himself believe it. She put up with his monstrous behavior, accepted the hurt and still helped him, still watched him with those eyes - still gave him a free ticket. He’d tried to push her away, for her own sake, knowing he would use her and use her and keep using her, hating himself…until he came back from the dead and finally understood what he’d done to her, had done to himself. And he tried to stop. 

When he understood that she was trying to let go, all he could do was wish her happiness. He thought they were saying a real goodbye that day. He was shocked to find that neither of them was very happy about that. 

_I let you go. I walked away, left you there. I’m always leaving you when what I want is just the opposite - I want to run toward you, and I don’t know how. I’m paralysed._

Seeing her outside his door, like a too bright daffodil blooming on the walk, asking to come in...he was given another chance to unearth that bright spark of rebellion, of _defiance_ that he _knew_ was buried in her. It had to be there. She couldn’t possibly care for him if it wasn’t. And he knew that she did still care for him, because she was here. That spark was calling to him, and he would find it.

_Lifting her dress and running up the stairs felt dangerous. Not physically. In every other way. It was running to a secret meeting of revolutionists; it was unearthing an ancient cursed relic; it was robbing a bank, stealing cattle, raiding the den of drug dealers, sneaking off to a tryst with your outlaw lover...none of which she had ever experienced, ever would experience. But she knew that those things would feel just like this. She had taken a stand. She had run away from safe, run away from...normal. She would have to reinvent herself and she had no idea how to do it, who she would be. But this was a start, standing with this strange, wonderful man. She’d find out who she was supposed to be._

When he closed the door behind them, they each knew that they were taking a big step - a leap, actually - into something that would irrevocably change them. They were both ready.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this develops more, the form may change a bit - nothing drastic, just enough to accomodate things when needed. So be patient if it looks a little different. It will still be the same story. Thanks so much to everyone who has read and kudoed and commented, you make my life so much brighter and help the stories along. I wish I could hug you all. :)


	4. Chapter 4

The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight. It wasn’t so difficult once you learned it, once you knew all the tricks and methods. He’d been hiding behind a disguise most of his life and still no one suspected. He’d had a few close calls over the years, but in the end, his secret remained safe. Until one small, awkward woman saw him, really _saw_ him, deep down beneath the tricky convolutions of the disguise, and knew the truth. No matter what he tried after that, what ways he tried to discourage her, push her away, hide from her, she _knew_ him, in ways that no one else did, knew things about him that no one else ever perceived. 

He knew her also. In its own way, her disguise was as good as his, but like her, he could see through it. He knew she was often misunderstood or unheard in her life. Despite her strength she was rarely willing to assert herself when others were concerned. She was lonely, but it was a loneliness for _kind_ \- there weren’t many who could match her, keep up with her, and she felt that lack deeply. She thought she wanted what others had but no matter how she tried, it didn’t work. She saw that as a failing on her part. And then she met him, and her inability to make that work she also saw as her failure. He watched her, as she watched him, for years, although it wasn’t likely that she was aware how _much_ he watched. For a very long time, he could scarcely admit it to himself.

He saw her quite often. They were inexplicably drawn together - or thrown together, he was never clear on that. He knew, beyond doubt, that he could depend, rely, on her as he could very few people in the world; he could always count on her honesty. And the more familiar he became with her - her quirks and idiosyncrasies, her likes and dislikes, her moods - the deeper she dug herself into him, until she became a part of him. Being without her was unthinkable, and yet...he nearly lost her. 

_I felt the connection, still feel it, even if we’re miles apart. Like a soft chord underlying a melody, barely there, almost unheard - and yet so much of the song, the structure of it, relies on that single, nearly invisible chord…_

He watched her now, standing in the middle of his messy flat. She was nervous but it was an excited nervous, not a fearful one. Anticipatory. Her smile flickered, on, off, her eyes darted everywhere. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, so they were constantly in motion. He circled around her slowly, taking in every tiny detail. The depth of pleasure this gave him shocked him, even now. 

He finally stepped closer to her, stopped in front of her. Her eyes widened as she looked up at his face, tried to read him. He waited. He knew she could sense what he was feeling. It was as though he vibrated at a certain frequency to which she was attuned; that vibration radiated outward from his center, and when it touched her, her own vibration raised or lowered to match it. Things he would deduce from other people, he picked up from her from this echoing vibration - much of their communication was from this feedback loop. Their ability to work together so well, in such harmony, in the lab or the morgue, stemmed from it. 

_“You’re leaving him.”_

_“Yes.”_

_‘You’ve not told him yet?”_

_“I couldn’t very well tell him something like that at John’s wedding, could I?”_

_“No, I suppose not. But soon...the sooner the better.”_

_“Yes. The sooner the better.”_

There was no need to discuss what they were doing. Each of them knew the price of it; each knew the risks involved. Their secret, their pledge. The commitment was to each other. The rest of the world had no part in it. The rest of the world had no need to know.

_Now it begins. Now_ we _begin. All the waiting, all the dancing around each other is done._

His fingers trailed lightly over her face, down her throat, along her delicate bones to her shoulder, down her arm to her wrist. He pulled her arm up, placed it around his neck, did the same with her other arm. Slid his hands to her waist and pulled her against him, all the while watching her face, noting the tiny changes in her eyes, the tension of her mouth. When she rested against him a small sigh escaped her and her eyes closed.

_He’d thought he was prepared for the feel of her against his body. He’d thought: electricity, lightning, sudden sharp desire. Instead it built like a slow wave in deep ocean, gathering itself over time and distance, an irresistible, implacable force demolishing everything in its path until nothing remained but intolerable need for resolution. His mouth on hers was shattering, all thought eradicated, all his energy focused on the overpowering intimacy of lips, tongue, of invading her. She_ opened _to him, and her deep, deep surrender, the absolute giving of all of herself, nearly brought him to tears._

He scooped her up, startling a small breathy laugh from her, carried her to his room. 

_Intimacy. A word so often used to mean sex, the simple act of copulation, the joining together of two bodies for sexual pleasure. Between a man and a woman, too many times that’s all it was. The deeper meaning was lost in the intensity of stimulation and end result, the self absorption of the need for climax eradicating other connections. Sex was so often the beginning, the goal, the main objective. How could any intimacy - a deeper communication between two entities, a true connection on many different levels, a true_ knowing _of the other - happen from such shallow intent?_

_Years. They had spent years learning each other. Unspoken communication, exploring the physical boundaries, the emotional terrain; watching the body’s dance, learning corresponding steps, bends, turns; memorising all the tiny signals that telegraph interior processes - this was true knowledge of each other, incorporated experience. Intimacy. The final joining of bodies was acknowledgement, celebration of it. It was the closing of the last gap between them, cementing, ritualising their bond._

_He took his time with her. He knew her body so well, after years of observation, working in tandem; he knew her responses, what signaled pleasure, pain, discomfort. He knew her gentleness, her strength, her precision. Feeling her skin, tracing the configuration of her bones, noting the tension in each muscle - it was all reward for the patience of self-denial, the nurturing of want. She responded like a well-tuned instrument, every soft moan or sigh a perfect note in this exquisite song they were composing._

_The fine tracery of blue beneath the skin of her breasts under his fingers; the sharp tattoo of her pulse under his lips; the soft fragrance of her hair; the deeper musky smell of her cunt - all were delightful prizes he captured as he moved over her. He would memorise all of her, every detail, and replay it over and over in his mind, creating an indelible image of her inside that would beat in his blood, dance in his breath every day that he lived. This was his secret vow to her and he knew she would feel it, remember it, cherish it, just as he did._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All characters belong to their respective creators. This is a work of fan fiction, I do not profit from any of it. All mistakes are mine alone.


	5. Chapter 5

The difference between _inside_ and _outside_ is often startling; it can be a study in contrasts, two worlds in opposition yet contained in a single sphere. Inwardly, she may as well have been teleported to a different universe. Outwardly, life went on as usual; nothing changed. 

This was part of who _they_ were, who they would be for a long while, if not forever. It was part of their pledge and she accepted it whole cloth, no reservations. She never questioned the conditions of their relationship now. It was an impossibility, like destroying energy. They existed together under this set of circumstances and there was no other way, and she would have given up her life sooner than ask that it change. It was that fundamental to her existence. _He_ was that fundamental. 

They continued, outwardly, as they had always been. They worked together at Bart’s, and if it seemed that they worked together more often than in the past, no one noticed. They were a unit already, in that capacity, essential to the work. 

Inwardly, they each dealt with the changes in their own manner. Molly found a steadiness and solidity, a foundation, to her life that had never been there before. No, it was not the “normalcy” she had fooled herself into thinking she’d always wanted. It was so much more. It was an entire new universe of excitement coupled with the unshakeable knowledge and peace that finally, she was connected with something _real_ , something about which there could be no doubts, no questions. It gave her more confidence in herself, in her own strengths and abilities. 

Sherlock discovered a wealth of information about himself, and consequently about other people, that astounded him. He was more grounded, all the excess static in his communication with others faded away. He saw more clearly, and understood more of what he saw. Molly rooted him in this world, and if that forced him to open up to others, it also gave him a sanctuary, a haven to which he could escape and be safely himself when needed. She was his port of calm in the storm of a chaotic life, and as the days went on, he came to appreciate it more and more. 

It wasn’t as if no one noticed at all. The friction between Molly and Sherlock, that had always been uncomfortably there in the past, seemed to lessen. But people assumed that they had simply worn away the rough edges and finally become real friends. Or at least as friendly as one could be with Sherlock. It took a while longer but gradually the people closest to Sherlock noticed that he had lost his constant irritation with life. He was steadier, calmer - no less intense but not quite as brittle about it.

He told her everything, explained all his plans and schemes, laid it out like a detailed blueprint for her. He hated it. Not the telling, but the plan itself, because he knew how difficult it would be for her. He also knew, without doubt, that she would accept it without question, that she would help in any way she could, no matter what it cost her. He watched her take it in and his heart grew in response, he opened in ways he could never have imagined before. 

_There is a strength in caring, a power that I never saw before. I see it now because of you. You’ve taught me that caring, that love, is a much greater asset than being apart, being alone could ever be. It allows us to do the unimaginable, the impossible. You’ve given me a world I never knew existed and I will repay you with hardship and pain. And you will turn it into joy. You are my life, Molly Hooper. Never doubt that; never forget it._

And so they moved forward, into the first hard test: to the outside world, Janine would be his...partner. His “girlfriend.” And outwardly, he would descend into the slimey world of drugs again, in order to lure a foe as dangerous as any he had ever faced. He had the strength to do it now, he thought, because of Molly. 

_“You won’t sleep with her? Promise me. Please. I could stand it if you have to, but...please don’t!”_

_“No. I won’t sleep with her. I will be with you every minute I can. Molly, it will all be pretense. I know it will be hard, it will be difficult for me too.”_

_“Just...be careful.”_

John’s call to her at the lab was unexpected. They hadn’t counted on his interference. She had to keep up the pretense, and so they played their parts - she, her righteous indignation; he, his sarcastic ripping into her supposed vulnerability. Afterward she followed him into the hallway, tears on her cheeks, pulled him into an office, held him tightly.

_“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I was terrified, I didn’t know what else to do!”_

_He grinned down at her, stroked her hair. “You were perfect! You were magnificent! Ah, I wish I had it all on film!”_

He kissed her tears away, held her until she stopped trembling, sent her back to continue her performance, ecstatic that it had gone so well...until it all fell apart.

. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has kudoed, commented and supported this story - and any others - so far, you have my undying gratitude. Fellow writers, readers - I ventured into writing these fics reluctantly, and you will never know how much joy and help you've given a newcomer, and what you've helped me overcome. Thank you, so very much, from the bottom of my heart. I truly do love you all and hope one day I can repay all your kindness! Bless you!


	6. Chapter 6

It was Mycroft who showed at her door with the news. Mycroft with his umbrella, his distant coolness, his detached, superior air. Except that this Mycroft was worn and tired, and worry etched lines in his face that should not have been there. Pain eroded the detachment and coolness; it made him human, and this humanity was an enormous weight he seemed to carry as he stepped inside her small flat. 

She took the news with outward calm, while her insides crumpled and tore like paper. She asked the appropriate questions without screaming, without desperate pleas for reassurance from the man who was breaking her heart - this man whose own heart must have been shattered. She never believed he didn’t care; Sherlock had his own reasons for feeling the way he did, but she couldn’t quite share them. 

Mycroft’s car would take her to the hospital. Sherlock was out of surgery. He would survive, barring complications. She could see him for a brief time now, and when he was awake, whenever she wanted. Mycroft would see to it. 

It never occurred to her to question how Mycroft knew about them. Sherlock said he always knew everything. 

“ _There was...a brief period when they thought they’d lost him. Somehow he...came back. Something kept him here.”_

Inside she quailed, yet again, not wanting to believe how close she’d come to losing him for good. When Sherlock said ‘danger’ it always sounded like a great adventure. He wasn’t really indestructible as he liked to claim, but she had talked herself into believing it. She had to. Otherwise she wouldn’t have been able to stand being with him at all. 

“ _If we love, we live with danger, always. And fear. We learn to ignore them both, else we couldn’t live - or love - at all, could we?”_

Mycroft’s words echoed her thoughts, and an odd gratitude filled her. Her fear and pain were a bit less terrible as she understood that someone else shared them, even if that someone else was the last person with whom she would have expected to share anything.

_It feels like fire, like being consumed by flames from the inside out. If he should die, half my soul would be ripped away; how would I survive that?_

None of this was unfamiliar. She had struggled with it from the beginning, knowing her commitment to him would always be partnered with the possibility of this devastation. She had not expected it to come so soon. 

Seeing him silent, his pale body so still against the white sheets, all feeling ceased and she went blessedly numb. Dissociation, a survival mechanism against the unthinkable, against unimaginable pain. Without it she would have crumpled to the floor and wailed her anguish like the bain-sidhe. 

_“John and Mary are downstairs. John was with him, but didn’t see the...He wasn’t in the room when it happened. There’s no reason for them to see him now, I’ll be sending them home. If you’d like to spend some time…”_

_“Yes, thank you.”_

Later she would think about Mycroft’s kindness, wonder about it. Now she would sit with Sherlock, as long as she was allowed, sit and _will_ her strength into him, _make_ him feel her presence. She told herself that as long as she was there, he couldn’t die, that there was nothing that could touch him with her standing guard. This was how she coped; this was all that stood between her and what she couldn’t endure. What remained outside the shock and terrible, burning pain, that tiny, isolated bit of her that was still functional rebelled at this magical thinking, this childish reasoning, but she was deaf and blind to it. The heart and soul need what they need and it’s often far beyond the rational.

Mycroft found her hours later sitting in a chair pulled up beside the bed, her hand laid lightly on Sherlock’s wrist. Her gaze was fixed on Sherlock’s face, and every so often her lips would move, as if she was speaking to him, but Mycroft could hear no words being spoken aloud. He asked a nurse to bring Molly some coffee and something to eat, and to not let anyone else disturb her until he returned.

Whatever needed to be done to insure that these two were together would be done. He would see to it. His brother had trusted this woman when he trusted no one else. She had done the seemingly impossible and kept Sherlock’s secret, all alone, for two years. There was a bond between them that he couldn’t fathom, but he respected it. Sherlock had gone against the grain and found friends. He had never trusted a woman before. Obviously there was something different about this one; she was far more than a “friend.” 

Mycroft took one last look at Molly sitting her vigil, then turned and made his way out of the hospital. He would leave her there as long as possible. He knew that neither Sherlock nor Molly had announced their relationship to anyone else. They took pains to keep it private. He would make sure that privacy remained unbroken. Anthea could take care of it, could monitor visitors and give them as much time alone as possible. Anthea was a romantic at heart, she would enjoy that. He smiled to himself, satisfied that he had done what he could for them in that way. The small voice whispering that Anthea might not be the only romantic was summarily hushed and locked away. 

_When he finally opened his eyes, he thought he was dreaming. Molly sat by his side, looking at him as if she had been there all along, as if she had been waiting for him to wake from a nap. The pain was a distant throb, although he suspected if he focused on it, it could become much more than that. Lying there watching Molly’s eyes fill with tears, feeling her small hand stroking his arm, seeing her brave smile, he had the odd thought that she had kept him safe - that as long as she was there, nothing could harm him. He tried to smile back at her, hoping it worked, hoping she would understand that he was thanking her._

She hadn’t cried. Through the shock of hearing the news, sitting here with him these hours afterward, she had held off the tears, as if giving in to them would sap her strength, as if not giving in was demonstration of her will, and she needed both strength and will to keep him from further harm. Seeing him open his eyes at last, seeing that poor attempt at a smile, she knew she had won. She could allow some tears now, a few of them at least. He was alive, for the moment he was safe. This time, for this moment, she had won. 

It wasn’t over, they both knew. Enclosed in this odd bubble, this unexpected interlude, they would rest for a moment before they would think, assess, regroup. Having lived through this shock, they hoped they could find a way to deal with whatever the future threw at them without giving in to panic or despair. They held to each other, knowing they were stronger now, the two of them together, than each would ever have been alone. This was their vow, their commitment, how it worked, and they had seen it hold true - this time.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Usual disclaimers: I do not own these characters, they belong to their creators, etc. A huge thank you to a certain a capella singer who has made Sherlock entirely too human for me, in a good way. Reviews, comments, random ramblings are welcomed, encouraged, begged for. Thank you in advance. :)


	7. Chapter 7

_My father taught me that we must never, ever lie or keep secrets from the ones we love. Sometimes the world conspires against us and we have to lie or keep secrets from others, but never our loved ones._

He told her everything. All of it. She would be the only one privy to it for a short while - what had happened, what was going to happen, as far as he knew, and what the plan was. She knew it could all go wrong at any time. There was no reassurance he could give her, but she had to know all of it. To do any less would be to diminish what they were to each other, and he would never allow that.

She took it all in silence. It broke his heart, seeing her brave face, knowing what it was doing to her inside. But this was what he saw in her from the beginning: the bravery, the strength, the will to do whatever was necessary. She knew how to do the _hard_ things, that others could not do. This was why he loved her. 

It was she who helped him escape the hospital, knowing it could kill him, but also knowing it was what he had to do. She was the one who waited, who endured the questions. And she understood that knowing she was waiting was what enabled him to do those things, those necessary things, to take the risks he took. Knowing how very much she mattered to _him_ was the only comfort she had, knowing that she was the reward he gave himself for taking the risks.

She was not surprised when she was told he returned to hospital in the ambulance. Mycroft again sent a car, with Anthea to escort her, and she waited until he was safe again, then sat and held his hand in the room, just as she’d done before. They would have a brief respite while he recovered, before the rest of the plan was put into action. 

He cautioned her not to be angry with Mary, and she wasn’t really. She understood Mary’s reasoning perfectly; she would have done the same to protect Sherlock, to protect what they had. 

The days following his release were theirs. She took a holiday from work to stay with him. There were questions, of course, when people found her there but she only smiled and offered them tea. He was a bit more rude about it, and flatly told them it was none of their business; he would never explain. Everyone would come to their own conclusions, and they were welcome to think whatever they liked. It wasn’t important. 

_As his strength returned, so did his compulsion to work, and she indulged this need. It was a joy to watch him, it always had been. After a while, he would turn to her and lose himself in her for a time, reveling in the way they meshed so easily, how she responded to him. His fingers left burning trails on her skin as he explored; her taste left him always ravenous for more. She learned all the hidden places where he was tender, or soft, all the different sounds he made, all the million ways he could whisper her name._ _Afterwards they would breathe each other’s sleeping breath, still entwined, the feel of skin to skin like a silent berceuse leading them into their dreams._

They spent Christmas eve quietly making decisions, plans for the future after the business with Magnussen was done. If she was worried, she hid it well. He was filled with confidence, or so it seemed. He was eager to have it over with, anticipating returning to her with the problem solved, and starting out on a new path with her by his side. She smiled at him as he left the next morning, the fearful thudding of her heart warring with the queasiness in her stomach. 

_It will be fine, it will work out and he’ll be home safe tomorrow. He has to be._

She sat in his chair, ran her hands down the arms of it, tried not to think, but after a few minutes found herself rocking back and forth, shivering. She bent forward, covered her face with her hands and cried. 

_I should have told him, I should have said something!_

Guilt and fear squeezed her gut and she ran to the bathroom, bending over the toilet, heaving until she was weak. She splashed her face with cold water, rinsed her mouth, then sank down on the floor, leaning against the tub. Her thoughts chased each other around in her head until she was exhausted. She pulled herself to her feet, went into the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, pulled his pillow against her and buried her face in it. She fell asleep breathing in his scent, praying to whatever gods would listen to bring him back to her.

_He knew what he had to do, knew it the minute those doors opened on that white, glaring, impossible space. He closed his eyes and only one thought came to him, one single word that nearly ruined him: Molly. The rest was a blur, a waking nightmare. He’d never known despair before, that black, yawing, empty pit that opens at one’s feet and pulls one inexorably in. He knew full well what was coming after he did what he had to do, what he_ must _do. They would never allow him to go back to her. His one big mistake had cost him much more than they knew._

_He knelt in the wind of the helicopter, and felt himself falling down and down into the dark, stripped of everything, his heart and brain frozen. He had saved everyone but himself - and Molly. He would beg and plead, promise them his soul if they would only let him see her, just for a few minutes. Mycroft turned away, unable to bear his brother’s pain, unable, this time, to do anything to ease it in the least. Yes, of course, he would tell Molly what happened, of course he would take care of her, keep watch to make sure she was all right. But there was no comfort for him, no escape from the consequences of his terrible blunder, either for him or for Molly. Not this time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own these characters, make no profit from this work. Thanks to all who read, leave kudos, and comments. Please review, critique, rant, philosophise, leave candy wrappers, whatever, to let me know what you think about how this is going. Feedback is essential to keep the fires lit, otherwise we sputter and die. I tend to sputter more than most when I die, which is exceedingly unpleasant for those around me.


	8. Chapter 8

Sorry, this isn't a chapter. I just wanted to let everyone know that I haven't abandoned this or my other two WIPs. Life has conspired to keep me temporarily preoccupied - deconstruction and reconstruction inside my house, dealing with a pregnant kitty, an ailing son, a totally discombobulated hubby, and various other crises, have somewhat interfered with what I really want and need to do, which is write. However, I do see light at the end of this particularly frustrating tunnel and hopefully will be updating within a week. Good thoughts for my poor torn apart house, my poor ready-to-pop kitty, and the other mind-numbing situations (as well as a little not-so-gentle nudge to the Crisis Intervention Fairies who seem to be lying down on the job lately!) would be greatly appreciated, so that we can get this show back on the road. Thank you ever so much for your patience and for your lovely support!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purposes of this story, the events in the special "The Abominable Bride" never happened. Sorry if anyone is particularly attached to those events and that story; I am not.

Despair. It settles over the shoulders like a cloak of ashes, fills the mouth and seeps through the pores, invading, violating. It seeps further, past bone and marrow, past organs and tissues, deeper and deeper, permeating the last cells of defense and slipping into that invisible and tenuous vehicle that holds the essence of who and what we are: it takes the spirit, pulls it into the featureless, hopeless grey maw, and obliterates us.

Despair. It spirals out of us like cawing ravens, echoing ceaselessly, expanding out and out, into the ethers, a dying wail, a final plea, into the ears of deaf gods.

Mycroft Holmes watched the process begin in his brother, feeling the echoes ghost through his heart, and for the first time in 45 years, put his face in his hands and wept. 

It was Anthea who pulled Mycroft up and out, who put his umbrella into his hand and walked him out to the waiting black car, who sat beside him and held his hand - silent and calm - on the way to Baker Street, where Molly waited for news of Sherlock.

Molly watched the television screen blankly, heard the Important Men speak with Important Voices, and knew that it had all gone horribly wrong. She waited, numb, too stunned to be afraid, for someone to enter the door and begin to demolish her life. 

Mycroft stood in the doorway of 221B, unable to speak, unable to reach the words. He stood mired in his own grief, staring, until Molly took his hand and pulled him inside. At last, with a deep shuddering breath, he managed to tell her, in the fewest and driest words he could, what had occurred and what the necessary consequences must be. 

Molly didn’t fall apart. She didn’t weep and wail and pound her fists against his chest. She simply turned and walked to the kitchen to make tea. After settling Mycroft in John’s chair with a cup, she curled up in her chair with Sherlock’s favorite mug, and said carefully and distinctly, “I’m pregnant.”

Mycroft stared at her for a long moment, then, when his hands began to shake, put his cup carefully on the table beside the chair, stood and walked to the door. He went down the narrow stairs to the front door. Outside on the walk, Anthea stood waiting patiently beside the black car. One glance at Mycroft’s face and Anthea immediately brushed past him and ran up the stairs. She expected to find Molly hysterical - or worse - and stopped short when she saw Molly sitting in Sherlock’s chair, sipping her mug of tea. She turned with a questioning look to Mycroft when he re-entered the room. Mycroft was staring at Molly. 

“Tell her,” he said softly. 

Molly looked up from her mug, and Anthea knew immediately what the situation was. She whirled on Mycroft and said, quietly but firmly, “There has to be a way.” 

_The mystery of women was one that fascinated Mycroft and frightened him in equal measure. For all his caustic words to Sherlock about goldfish, he was reliant on Anthea as he had never been on any other person. Her extraordinary strength, her uncanny intuition, her efficiency and resourcefulness held him in awe. The weakness wasn’t in feeling the way he did about her; the weakness was in letting anyone else know it._

Anthea’s certainty and determination flowed into him, a constant river of strength and fortitude. They stared at each other for long seconds, until she said quietly, “What is the one thing connected to Sherlock that everyone fears the most?” 

Mycroft frowned and turned inward, deep in thought. The answer to the question, however, didn’t come from either Mycroft or Anthea. In her small, tired voice, Molly spoke up from Sherlock’s chair: 

“Jim Moriarty.”

Mycroft stared at Molly, still frowning. “But Moriarty is dead.”

“Only if everyone believes he is.” This from Anthea, who suddenly was electric with energy. “What if he isn’t dead? What if he came back? What if... _we_ _made_ _him_ _come_ _back_?”

Mycroft whirled and hurried down the stairs, putting his phone to his ear as he went. Anthea walked to Molly and bent down to her, putting her hand on Molly’s shoulder, smiling. “Don’t worry about anything. We’ll get him out of this.” With a wink, she spun around and followed her boss. 

Molly finished her tea, set the mug aside, then put her face in her hands and cried. 

In the end, it was simple.

It wasn’t difficult to baffle the surveillance of Sherlock’s cell for a few minutes of privacy. Explaining the plan to Sherlock didn’t take long. Finding the right people to take care of the job was not so difficult either; trust Anthea to know where to look. By the end of the week, all was in readiness. It was Anthea who took care of Molly, who let her know everything that was happening, and what she could expect. The hardest part, for everyone, was maintaining the ruse that all was as it should be: Sherlock would say goodbye to his friends, get on a plane, and fly off to exile. 

Mycroft went back to being distant, cold, detached, cynical. Anthea was his right hand, his general. Molly went back to work at Bart’s, only being a little sick in the mornings.

Sherlock, alone in his cell, withdrew into his Mind Palace, where he walked with Molly through many joyful plans for the future, listening to her rattle on while he contemplated the distances between hope and despair. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your support, kind words and good wishes over the past few weeks. There shouldn't be any more major delays in posting updates. Sometimes flesh life just decides to get in the way of the really important things like writing. Thankfully, the worst of the last episode of "Flesh Life Blues" is over. It's very good to be back here. :)


	10. Chapter 10

Aftermath. The consequences or aftereffects of a significant unpleasant event. 

The general public knew very little about James Moriarty, about who he was or what he’d actually done. To the man or woman on the street, Moriarty was a somewhat minor player in the drama of the return of Sherlock Holmes from the dead. He was “the bad guy”, he was gone - and _Sherlock_ _Holmes_ _is_ _alive_!

So when the image of James Moriarty, Consulting Criminal, nemesis of Sherlock Holmes, head of a world wide network of criminals and evil-doers, appeared on virtually every electronic screen across England, not all that many people even knew who they were seeing. Of the ones who did, most dismissed the event as a hacker’s prank, a short-lived annoyance. There were very few who expressed alarm, who panicked or rushed to find someone, _anyone_ , who could do something to fix whatever problem this image represented.

In short, for most of England, it was something of a non-event. Annoying, maybe unpleasant for some, but significant? Not really. For the few who panicked, Mycroft had the perfect remedy for their distress: Bring back Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had “defeated” Moriarty once; he could do it again. For those who questioned this (Moriarty had, after all, “defeated” himself by committing suicide), Mycroft was well-equipped with an abundant supply of reasons why Sherlock was the one solution to the problem. In a very short time, James Moriarty had again faded into the background of yet another dramatic return of Sherlock Holmes. 

And there he stayed. Even the panicked few returned to their work, got on with their lives, and let someone else take care of things. Sherlock Holmes was on the job; he would figure it all out.

Therefore, the aftermath of the James Moriarty event, and of the exile of Sherlock Holmes, contained very little in the nature of consequences. Sherlock was cautioned to lay low and fly under the radar for a while. Molly returned to her work at Saint Bart’s, glad to see her cadavers again. John and Mary were given a brief, somewhat altered version of the great plan to rescue Sherlock from his punishment for murder, and though Mary knew it wasn’t the whole truth, both accepted the story. Sherlock was their friend; they were simply glad to have him back. Mycroft, after witnessing and experiencing first-hand the trauma of profound loss, determined to alter his relationship with Anthea into something a bit more personal, and found her more than willing to cooperate.

Sherlock expressed his gratitude for his rescue by doing exactly what he was told - for a while. It was not in his nature to fly under anyone’s radar for long. But to the world at large, he was still flying solo; for a very long time, only a few people knew of his relationship with Molly, and they were content with that. John and Mary finally noticed something was different between their two friends; they were let in on the secret and were more than supportive of the relationship, even if John couldn’t quite grasp the reasons for all the secrecy. 

For Sherlock and Molly, much was different. Molly’s return to work was only temporary. Sherlock was adamant about her - and his baby - not being constantly exposed to lab and morgue chemicals. He was not happy about Molly being at Bart’s at all, even for a short time. Molly’s body began to change, and Sherlock was fascinated. He wanted to know every detail she could give him about the experience; his experiments with her were entertaining to say the least. 

_As for having a baby...well, it was unexpected, it would be a challenge, it would require a multitude of adjustments. But having already experienced the unfathomable and all-encompassing effect that loving Molly had wrought in him, he could only believe that caring for this new small being, loving_ hischild _, would be more of the same, making him stronger, more able to deal with the complexities of the world, more able to understand the motives and actions of other people. And he was quite looking forward to meeting - and teaching - this extension of himself and Molly. What a brilliant child this would be!_

_Molly watched the changes around her, experienced the deep and lasting changes happening inside her body and mind, and revelled in the knowledge that she experienced them all from inside the wondrous, secure, and - mostly - happy landscape of her bond, her relationship, her boundless love with Sherlock. Their child would be like no other, although she knew that most mothers felt that way about their children._

_But those children didn’t have Sherlock Holmes for a father._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end. This was not originally supposed to be a story; it was to be a one shot, an exercise for me. I was asked to continue and this is the result. It's been an enlightening experience, and very gratifying. My deepest thanks to all who have read, kudoed, and commented along the way. If you enjoyed it, I'm very happy. If you didn't, that's okay too. 
> 
> This is not a work for profit of any kind; I do not own these characters, they belong to their creators (and I am eternally grateful to said creators for what they've done!), and I only borrow them for fun. 
> 
> Peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Come to tumblr and visit ashockinglackofsatin!


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